THE SWALLOW 



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black face. Who, tlien, art thou, thou who always concealest thyself, 

 who never showest me auffht 



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but thy trenchant wings — 

 scythes rapid as that of Time ? 

 But Time goes forward without 

 pause ; thou, thou always re- 

 turnest. Thou drawest close to 

 my side ; it seems as if thou 

 wouldst graze me,-wouldst touch 

 me ? — So nearly dost thou caress 

 me, that I feel in my face the 

 wind, almost the whirr of thy 

 wings. Is it a bird ? Is it 

 a spirit ? Ah, if thou art a 

 soul, tell me so frankly, and 

 reveal to me the barrier which 

 separates the living from the 

 dead. 



But let us not anticipate, 

 nor let loose the waters of 



bitterness. Rather let us trace this bird in the people's thoughts, 

 in the good old popular wisdom, close akin, undoubtedly, to the 

 wisdom of Nature. 



The people have seen in her only the natural dial, the division of 

 the seasons, of the two great hours of t'le year. At Easter and at 

 Michaelmas, at the epochs of family gatherings, of fairs and markets, 

 of leases and rent-paying, the black and white swallow appears, 

 and tells us the time. She comes to separate and define the 

 past and the coming seasons. At these epochs families and friends 

 meet together, but not always to find the circle complete ; in the last 

 six months this friend has disappeared, and that. The swallow 

 returns, but not for all ; many have gone a very long journey, longer 

 than the tour of France. To Germany ? No ; further, further still. 



Our co'mpanions, industrious travellers, followed the -swallow's 



